


subletting

by falter



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Amnesia, M/M, Podfic Welcome, van-era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-23
Updated: 2010-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-11 18:31:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falter/pseuds/falter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I did huge in-depth timeline research, then basically said fuck it. So this is sort of set fall 2003, with liberties taken regarding actual tour dates for everyone involved.</p>
    </blockquote>





	subletting

**Author's Note:**

> I did huge in-depth timeline research, then basically said fuck it. So this is sort of set fall 2003, with liberties taken regarding actual tour dates for everyone involved.

  
Joe wakes up in a silent, unfamiliar apartment, half throttled by sheets and with his skull feeling like a balloon full of molten iron. It's late in the afternoon: the time of day when the sunlight is low and red-gold through the windows, quiet and heavy. Not that he'd know for sure -- he isn't even trying to open his eyes, that shit can only end in heartbreak. He fights his way loose from the bed where he crashed just before dawn and stumbles, whimpering a little, until he manages to make it into the bathroom. This is -- Joey's place? Billy's? Some local friend of Andy's who had a name with a -y on the end. As many guys as he can remember were here last night, he's glad he's still kind of out of it for this part of his day. Bunch of drunk fuckers with bad aim. Not that he's exactly steady. He wavers a little in the doorway once he's done -- even through closed lids, it's bright away from the direction he came from. Living room? Yeah. He should opt for the sofa anyway. It's easier than maneuvering around corners again and trying to figure out which room he came from, and he'll be that much closer to coffee. Someday, when he can face making it. _Finding_ it. He's an optimistic guy, though: that day will come. Or Jimmy will find his sad, uncaffeinated corpse when he finally gets back from work, and that asshole will at least be inconvenienced by his body. It's win-win.

So he's shuffling along in what he's pretty sure is kind of the right direction and figuring it might be smart to get ready to let the sofa take him out at the knees when something else takes him out at the ankles.

Turns out the sofa wasn't that far away, though. He comes down half on it, half off, which is a lucky thing for the guy he tripped over, since it means Joe's weight doesn't all come down on the guy's bony-ass shins. Just maybe half his weight. The guy comes up off the floor with an awkward jerking motion and a yelp, twisting his legs up toward his body and out from under Joe. Which doesn't really work so well, unfortunately, since Joe is kind of in the middle of a three-point balancing act: toes, knees, and forehead. Joe's got his hands flattened against the edge of the sofa, too, but honestly, he hasn't managed the coordination to take any weight on them yet. So when the guy tries to squirm away, Joe gets pulled along with him, loses contact with the sofa entirely, slides the rest of way down to the floor and rolls, winding up flat on his back. Which was kind of what he was going for, after all. Just -- not on the floor. Which, while pleasantly cool, is disgustingly gritty.

The room is spinning. He knew opening his eyes would be a bad idea.

"Motherfuck." The voice is mercifully quiet, considering how close it is to Joe's aching head. He carefully tips his head to the side to see who the hell is crashed out on the floor -- still crashed out on the floor in the middle of the afternoon. It takes Joe a moment to realize that he's closed his eyes again. Fuck. That was -- Andy's friends have the best friends, seriously. That was some night, even if one of them's still here, the asshole freeloader. Except when Joe finally manages to slit an eye open, he doesn't recognize the guy frowning back at him.

***

Joe's still on the floor twenty minutes later, listening to the guy rummaging in the kitchen cupboard. He'd be more alarmed about not knowing who the fuck he is, except he's pretty sure that he's not searching for cash or valuables, because, well: kitchen cupboard. Also, the guy honestly isn't very threatening. He's skinny, and not very tall, and he has the kind of over-thought scene hair that Joe's never managed to see the point of. Glasses, too, and something like five layers of hoodies and jackets, which is probably the only way the guy managed to find the floor comfortable enough to sleep on.

There's a quiet, satisfied _hmmph_ from the direction of the kitchen, and the sound of the coffeemaker starting up. Joe crooks an arm over his eyes and thinks aimlessly about what he might want to do if he regains the power of movement again someday. A shower, maybe. Maybe not. Movement's one thing, staying upright and getting clean at the same time is another. Maybe if he had some Skittles first. And a whole fuck of a lot of that coffee. He's weighing out the cost/benefit of trekking into the kitchen to die on the floor there, within sight of the coffeemaker, when there's a shuffling across the floor and something's set down next to his head. He moves his arm away from his face in time to see the guy step unsteadily over him and drop onto the sofa, cradling a dirty glass full of coffee. There's dried orange juice residue around the inside rim, Joe can see it from here, but the coffee looks worth it.

Wait. The thing next to his head is the rest of the coffee, in the much cleaner pot. Yeah. It doesn't matter who this kid is, he's okay in Joe's book.

***

So Joe and the guy sit and nurse their hangovers and watch tv, and eventually the guy who actually lives in the apartment, Andy's friend, gets home from his phonebank job or whatever, and is all "Oh hey Joe. Kind of sketch to have pals over while I was out, but whatevs, introduce us." and Joe is all "Uh, I thought you guys knew him?" and looks at the guy, and the guy is all looking at Joe and says, "Uh, I thought you knew me?" and Joe is all, "Dude, I figured it would come back to me, what the fuck, were you at the gig?" and the guy is all "I guess? Gig? Probably?" and Joe is all, "Dude, are you still wasted?" and the guy is all ::shrugs:: and "Could be, I don't know." and Andy's friend is all "Guys, this is fucking fascinating, but I'm ordering a fucking pizza, who's in?" and Joe and the guy are all YES, IN, TOTALLY IN, and Joe finds his jacket on the floor where he dropped it when they got in last night and tugs a few crumpled bills out of his wallet and shoves them at Billy, but the guy, he's frowning and poking at his own pockets. And looking under the sofa and shit. And then he finally straightens up -- or sort of straightens up, because he has like the most dejected posture Joe has ever fucking seen, seriously, the guy should be a mime of thwarted pizza desire or some shit -- and says he can't find his wallet, or maybe doesn't have a wallet, or something. And Joe -- well, Joe's a fucking sap, right? But the guy made coffee, he figures he owes him, that was pure caffeine heroism. So Joe tells Johnny to hang on and snags another couple of bucks out of his jacket and he's handing it over when he figures, like, if he's buying the guy dinner, they ought to be properly introduced. So he sticks out a hand and is all, "Hey, by the way, I'm Joe, from Chicago." and the guy kind of hesitates, but takes his hand, and says, "Oh. Hi. So you're...visiting." And that throws Joe a bit, it was totally not what he expected -- he expected a fucking name, but he rolls with it, and says, "Yeah, touring, that was our gig last night. Tomorrow we're in Newark, I think, but yeah, I guess you could call it visiting."

The guy perks up a little, and he's all, "You're in a band?" and he looks at Joe and then at Joey, who's finishing his call for pizza, and Joey is all, "Yeah, dude, no, not me." and gives Joe this weird fucking look, and Joe's all WHAT? with his expression, because, in fact, it *is* fucking cool that he's in a band, so he nods at the guy and says, "Yeah, the other guys crashed with other people, we're like mid-tour, so it's cool to have a night off and a place to crash with a fucking bed, and man," Joe turns to talk to Billy, "Thanks again for letting me stay here, seriously." and Billy is all, "Dude, it's nothing, any friend of Andy's." and goes to change out of his work clothes.

So they all wind up having this long conversation about bands, and Joe's band, and what makes things really work in live shows over the pizza when it gets there, and then they're like, "Fuck this shit, let's go out," and they clean up a little, but Joe's only got the clothes he changed into in the van after they got off the stage last night, and it's been a while since they were clean, but the guy only has the stuff he woke up in, and he's making that shit work, kind of, so: it's a look. Last night's look, but fuck it. Jimmy, the asshole, is wearing clothes that look like they might have been washed sometime this decade, but whatever. He takes them to some bar with music -- not the place from the night before, and Joe's pretty sure it also isn't the place they went to after the place from the night before, or, well, there might have been a third place, that's when it started getting hazy. There's no cover, and nobody checking ID, which is awesome, since they don't remember until they get there that the guy doesn't have his wallet, and Joe, well, he might technically be underage, and that's harder to slide past the bartender when they already checked it at the door.

Anyway, they get there early enough that there's nothing happening on the tiny stage yet, but late enough that there are enough people that it feels like it's worth being there. So Andy's friend gets the first round from the bar, then sees a girl he knows or something and fucks off, so Joe hands the guy some cash and tells him to get a fucking pitcher or whatever. Which he does, and Joe figures he should take a stab at getting the guy's name again, but he feels like kind of a tool now, they've been talking for hours. Like, he knows, in depth, exactly what the guy thinks of pretty much every decision Morrissey has ever made, with and without Johnny Marr, and it's...well, it seems like he must know the guy's name already. And maybe someone Joe recognizes will show up at the bar, and he can do some sort of "Introduce yourselves" crap and listen in. Whatever, they just keep shooting the shit and drinking cheap beer, and Joe's getting kind of, well, he isn't wasted, but he's buzzed, and he can kind of see wasted way off in the distance, he knows he'll get there. And the guy isn't an annoying drunk, though Joe can tell he's definitely feeling it too -- he just seems to get more and more calm. Not that he was exactly hyper before, he just gets sort of slowed down and smoothed out. It's interesting to watch.

Except. Fuck. He's been staring at the guy and not saying anything, and what the fuck? The guy is sort of staring back at him, all peaceful, sort of, but with something else. Curiosity, maybe, in the angle of his chin, and the way his eyebrow quirks behind his glasses. So Joe shakes his head a little to clear it, or maybe to make a show of clearing it, and says, "Dude, fuck, I totally spaced out, sorry." And finally the damn band that's been trying to get their shit set up for the last hour starts playing, and they sound pretty terrible, but it's loud, and the guy gets another pitcher, or it magically appears in front of them, or something, and things even out again.

Until Joe looks over a couple more songs in, and this time, the guy is staring at him. Or not staring, really. Watching. Kind of speculatively. And fuck, they're -- are they flirting? Holy shit, they totally are. He can fucking feel it, like gravity or something, he just keeps leaning in, like he can't help it. The guy's interesting to look at! And they totally connected over The Queen Is Dead, and Joe thinks, hey, that's, well, what the hell, right? And he smiles a little and tries on a speculative look of his own. Things get a little blurry then -- Joe's not that drunk, he isn't; he's just not paying attention; his focus is elsewhere.

They wind up behind a pillar and next to the stairs that lead up to the emergency exit, in a pocket of heat and darkness. Joe's pretty sure it wasn't where they were making for, but it wasn't like they talked it through, and this is as good as anywhere, really. It doesn't fucking matter with the guy's mouth hot against his jaw and his hands hard against Joe's hip and shoulder, pulling him forward at the same time that he does his damnedest to shove Joe back into the wall with the rest of his body. The guy slides his mouth down over the side of Joe's neck and Joe fucking shudders at the sensation, lets his head drop to the side, and the guy slides his hand up from Joe's shoulder into his hair and pulls him in and they're kissing, and sweet motherfucking fuck, it's good.

Joe's got his hand half under the back of the guy's hoodie and managed to tangle it in his shirt somehow when neither of them were paying attention, and he's got a deathgrip on the guy's belt, fingers curled tight between leather and denim, like either of them are trying to get away, which: no. Really no. The guy gives a last sucking bite to Joe's lower lip and tilts his head back a little; Joe can barely see him in the gloom, and what light there is reflects off the guy's glasses, but Joe can make out the guy just barely quirking the corner of his mouth into a smile before he twists and holy fuck does this fucking sinuous hard _grind_ and Joe fucking whimpers. He's hard as hell; they both are, and it's fucking uncomfortable and hot and awesome and Joe wants more, so he does his best to grind right back, even though he thinks he's maybe a little too drunk to be coordinated enough for finesse. Screw finesse, though, Joe just shoves and wriggles a little and it feels amazing and the guy -- this is ridiculous, he needs to get the guy's fucking name -- the guy tilts his head back and Joe can see his eyes are closed and his mouth drops open and he's breathing hard, they both are, and Joe just goes for it and shoves his hand down the guy's pants.

It all happens pretty fast after that, it's all awkward angles and Joe probably should have done something about the guy's belt before he started because the buckle is digging into his damn arm, but he isn't going to pull back. He's got his palm sliding over the slick head of the guy's cock, and down, and up again, and it shouldn't be easy, but it is, and there's a tug at Joe's hip, and another, and Joe's pants are open, and the guy is definitely not as drunk as Joe, given the state of his problem-solving skills. Whatever, Joe's the kind of guy who likes a challenge, and he shifts his grip again and grabs at the guy's ass with his other hand just as the guy gets *both* his hands into Joe's jeans and oh holy fuck the guy's hands are hot and slippery with sweat and he leans in and drags his open mouth over Joe's chin and down his throat and up again and bites hard and Joe goes off like a fucking rocket and nearly falls over, fuck.

Luckily he's still sandwiched between the wall and the guy, and the whole hand-down-the-guy's-pants/belt-still-buckled situation is kind of anchoring, if maybe a little awkward while Joe's getting his breath back. The guy isn't waiting on him, though, he's got his own hand cupped over Joe's, outside his jeans, pressing and guiding, and by the time Joe's ready to be an active participant again the guy is gasping and pressing his forehead against Joe's shoulder. Joe figures turnabout's fair play and licks the exposed arch of neck and doesn't bite, exactly, so much as push his teeth against the guy's skin, hard, and breathe in. The guy shoves his hips forward, and rolls them a little, and Joe does his best in the space he has to work with and the guy jerks against him, once, and again, and goes tense and he's coming. Wow. Okay.

Yeah, Joe thinks. Yeah. This tour is awesome, this bar, this -- huh, this guy was pretty into the idea that Joe's in a band, does that make him a groupie? Probably not, since Joe had to actually clue him in on the band thing, but whatever. Joe's not sure if it's hotter that way or not, and he watches as the guy mops at them both a little with the front of his t-shirt before tugging his hoodie straight and zipping up Joe's jeans for him. Joe buckles his own belt -- he's not totally useless -- and he's wondering if shit's about to get awkward now (he's feeling weirdly sober), when the guy leans in and they're kissing again. Which is when the bouncer shows up and pokes Joe in the arm and hollers, "Get a room, assholes," and Joe's pretty happy about the timing because getting thrown out for having his dick hanging out of his pants would have sucked. Or maybe it would have made the scene-kid-possible-groupie sex anecdote even better, but whatever, he'll think about it later. The guy looks a little abashed, though, even if Joe sort of has to squint to see it, it's barely there on his face, but the guy shrugs a little and gestures in a "bathroom, be right back" kind of way and moves off, and Joe does feel a little guilty about not getting the guy's jeans open before he came, but that leads him right into an idea about maybe getting the guy's jeans open and making him come _again_ , and there's a thought.

Maybe the guy's got an apartment somewhere nearby, and they can try this again, on a bed. Or, hell, against a different wall, Joe's not really that picky. He could use another beer, though, and he's started moving toward the bar and digging a couple of bucks out of his pocket when a body half-crashes into him and it's Marty or Jerry or whatever the fuck his name is, Andy's friend, and he's pretty trashed himself, and they barely keep from tumbling over while Jerry pats apologetically at Joe and shouts "Found you, you dick," over the shitty band that's still playing, or maybe it's a new shitty band, whatever. Jerry's got a hookup, and he's going back to her place, so he shoves a key into Joe's hand and tells him to leave it under a fucking brick if Jerry's not back in the morning, and leers a little, drunkenly, and takes off. And shit, that's right, Joe couldn't have gone to the guy's place, wherever the fuck that might be, because the guys are going to be picking him up at eleven in the fucking morning. Like he'll even be awake by then, much less be able to get himself from one strange apartment to another in some fucking town he doesn't know. Whatever, if Billy isn't coming back, then they've got his place. He seemed okay -- well, okayish -- with the guy being there before, so Joe's probably clear bringing him back again. Good enough. He's got a plan by the time the guy turns up again next to him, and Joe raises an eyebrow and nods toward the door, and they're out.

The guy looks a little confused when Joe asks him if he'll come back to Jimmy's apartment, which is off-putting. Maybe he thought Joe wasn't up for more, and it's not the other way around, because he's walking pretty close, and watching Joe even closer. The guy looks strange under the street lamps, his eyes shadowed and his body all angles, with weirdly long limbs for someone who's pretty much Joe's height. It makes Joe think about getting his clothes off -- getting both of their clothes off, fuck -- and he walks faster.

By the time they get to the door and Joe's trying to get the key into the fucking lock, the guy is totally plastered against him again, or, no, wait, it's totally the other way around. Maybe Joe was overestimating how much he'd sobered up, because he's hanging on the guy, pretty much, and he takes the key out of Joe's hand, laughing a little, really quietly, and slides the key right in, and unlocking a motherfucking door shouldn't be sexy, should it? That's crazy, that's twilight zone shit, but the guy has long fingers to match his long arms and legs, and it's -- Joe's having trouble looking away from his fingers, is all. And his mouth, the sharp bow of it; his fingers and his mouth and his hips under Joe's hands and they pretty much fall through the door. Joe might have shoved, whatever, hair-splitting.

The guy shoulders the door closed, and he's laughing again, and his eyes are dark behind his glasses, and Joe reaches out and tugs him down the hall, toward the bed. He's hanging on to every piece of the guy he can reach, grabbing and grabbing again, elbows and hair and hips, and he's mostly letting the guy steer them since Joe's trying to focus on the problem of too many fucking clothes in the way. They still hit the wall twice trying to get through the bedroom door, and fall through on the third attempt, laughing and breathless, Joe under the guy, and it's good, being pressed into the floor, but they did that already, so he sets his heels and flips them. The guy looks startled at that, and turned on, and expectant, and the light from the hall isn't enough for this, fuck, Joe wants to see, so he gives a warning press to the guy's shoulders, pushing them against the floor, and narrows his eyes and says, "Stay," which makes the guy roll his eyes. It's -- Joe doesn't want to fucking stand up, he doesn't want to climb up off the guy, but he wants to see. He wants to see everything.

Once the light's on, he straddles the guy's hips and starts pushing open his jacket, unzipping one hoodie, and then another. It's like unwrapping a fucking birthday present, and he hauls the guy up by the front of the t-shirt that he's pretty sure is the bottom layer and licks into his mouth, suddenly desperate and amped up and fucking ready, and he tries to pull the shirt up over the guy's head before he remembers that he needs to get the hoodie/jacket cocoon down off the guy's arms first, and it's fucking ridiculous and the guy has already managed to strip Joe of his shirt while he was trying to figure it out, and is working on Joe's belt and his own simultaneously. Not effectively, exactly, but Joe thinks he can't fault the enthusiasm as he shoves and pulls and gets the guy stripped to the waist, then grabs at his wrists and heaves back and up to get them both off the floor before shoving his own jeans down and kicking off his shoes and crowding the guy back and onto the bed.

They're both naked, and horizontal, and wow, the guy is pale, and thin, and all angles, but better, sharper angles than Joe could see before, soft and smooth in between. Joe rubs a thumb over the guy's hip; he isn't sure where he wants to start, and Joe looks up to find him just watching. Waiting; quiescent. It makes Joe feel like he's caught between moments, hovering between one calm breath and the next, even though he can hear them both breathing raggedly, desperate and wanting. It feels amazing, and he reaches up to the guy's face and strokes at his temple, his jawline, and looks a question, and pulls the guy's glasses off, and drops them on the floor.

His eyes are amazing, a little unfocused now, and dark, and he pulls Joe down and kisses him and goes for his neck again because he so totally has Joe's number it isn't even fucking funny. The guy twists a little and Joe almost goes with it this time, because being shoved against the wall was awesome, and he could go for being shoved into the mattress a little, too. But he centers his weight more heavily instead and keeps the guy still, catches at his wrists, presses them down against the sheets and rubs his thumbs along the awkward, sharp bones there. They can change things up again later, maybe; after he tries a few things out, samples the whole damn buffet.

Joe shifts his weight back a little, but the guy stays where he is, staring up at him and frozen except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Nice. Joe slides his hands along the guy's arms, down from wrist to elbow, then up from elbow to shoulder, barely touching. The guy shudders like he can't help it, like he's struggling to stay still. Joe rests his palms, light against the warm angles of the guy's shoulders, and counts carefully to ten in his head, drawing it out while the guy's breathing gets faster, more ragged. Then he leans forward hard, putting all the weight he can manage on his hands, pushing down, and the guy jolts and fucking squeaks and it's awesome, and Joe wants to kiss him again, what the fuck, but he doesn't, he can wait.

He's got other plans.

He drops his head and bites the skin below the guy's collarbone, quick and sharp, and that gets him a moan. So he bites some more for a while, until the guy can't stop his hips twitching, though it's obvious he's trying. That's worth something, really, and Joe shifts back again to look at the guy's face, and fuck, he's a mess, he's coming undone and Joe's barely fucking started, it's incredible, and amazing, and some other fucking adjectives or shit that Joe doesn't have the brainpower to come up with right now, he just knows he loves this feeling, right now, loves this, and that makes _him_ feel like he's coming undone, and it's like vertigo stretched out and softened, indescribable, rushed and urgent and lazy and unending, all at once. It's. Joe doesn't even fucking know, what the actual fuck, seriously, so he just lets it take him where it will, shifting back up, kissing the guy careful and slow and hot while he gasps and makes desperate sounds and tries to make the kisses harder, faster. He's squirming, rubbing up against Joe as much as he can, and he's not still at all anymore, so Joe just slows the kisses down even more, trails his mouth down the guy's jaw, breathes hot behind his ear, sucks a gentle wet kiss on the skin under his eye, and sits up.

That nearly earns him a sob, and Joe's gasping too, and it's a good thing Tony's out, because things are getting pretty fucking loud. He grins, thinking about it; thinking about how good this is, this tour, this night, this fucking town, whereverthefuck, this fucking guy, whoeverthefuck he is. Perfect.

Joe pushes down again on the guy's shoulders, not hard, just enough that the guy goes still again. Or tries to; he's still shifting his hips under Joe's weight, trying to get more contact. Like he can't help it, and he gasps again, and whispers, "Joe."

He sounds raw and desperate, and Joe isn't an asshole, so he whispers back, barely sounding more together, "Yeah. Yeah, I got it."

Joe shoves himself back along the bed, sliding down the guy's body, and fuck it's like he forgot he _had_ a cock, he's been so turned on, but that's fucking distracting, rubbing against the guy, and it feels amazing, but he's got a plan now, he needs to fucking focus, so he pushes the guy's legs apart and folds himself between them. Then he waits, and watches the guy squirm, and it's like a fucking feedback loop, the guy can't stop, and Joe's nowhere near but the guy's hips are still twitching up toward where he was, like wishing can make it so, his cock hard and dark against the pale sweat-slick skin of his belly.

The guy makes another desperate sound, not quite a word, and Joe said he had it, he promised, so he sets his palms carefully over the curve and angle of the guy's hips, and presses down, hard enough to still them. The movement travels up and down the guy's body like electric current for a moment, kinetic, pulling his legs up, kicking his heels against the mattress, curving his shoulders up off the bed, tensing his neck, squeezing his eyes closed. Then it all runs out again, the tension, and he stills, and Joe can barely hear the soft, drawn-out moan, but that fucking undoes *him*, he can hear the noise he makes in return, but he isn't sure what the fuck it is, a gasp or a sob, what the fuck, and he gives in and leans down again, and licks his way up the guy's cock, and sucks it in hard and fast and deep, and all the spaces in his head go bright and loud and perfect.

***

Joe wakes up to a muffled banging, regular, one-two-three-four, then a pause that's almost long enough to let him fall asleep again before it repeats, one-two-three-four. He's tangled in twisted sheets and somebody else's body and there's sun in his eyes, glaring and stabbing at what actually wouldn't be that awful a headache if somebody would shut the fucking blinds and stop the damn banging, what the fuck.

He turns his head and scrubs a hand over his face and when he opens his eyes again, there's a guy looking back at him. Oh, right -- the guy. Nice. But this is ridiculous, seriously, so he tries not to grin too hard at his own stupidity, he's got to fucking man up, here, and he croaks out a "Morning." The guy smiles back a little, and Joe can't help it, he leans over and kisses the corner of the guy's mouth, where his lips quirk, before dropping his head down and resting his forehead in the middle of the guy's chest so at least he won't have to look at him when he says it. He's still going to fucking crack up; he's like the king of all the tools, it's an achievement. Okay. "So. You know I never -- dude, I feel like such a dick, but," and he totally is cracking up, and the guy is running his fingertips over the skin behind Joe's ear, and into his hair, and it feels fucking nice, but, "What's your name, anyway. I never got your name, I'm sorry, I'm an asshole."

The guy's fingers stop moving, then, and everything's quiet for a moment, and then the banging starts again, and Joe's stomach sinks, and his head hurts, and wow, this is awkward. And then the guy tugs a little, gently, on Joe's hair, pulling his head up and looking at him, curious and squinting a little without his glasses.

"Um." The guy gropes off the side of the bed with his free hand and fumbles his glasses on, then looks at Joe again. "I thought I explained? Sorry. I guess --" He looks embarrassed, and it's still awkward, but Joe's confused now, so at least that's distracting. "I don't remember. I mean, like, I don't know who I am."

What. What the everloving fuck. "What?"

"I, um. I don't know my name either?"

And just like that, Joe's totally fucking cracking up, what the fuck, seriously, how is this his life, amnesiac-scenester-maybe-groupies, nobody is ever going to believe this shit, not Pete, not anyone.

Thankfully, the guy starts laughing too, after a minute, and Joe kisses him, for real this time, fuck morning breath, whatever, both of their mouths are nasty, it can't really get worse. "Amnesia? Seriously?" When Joe tries to look serious about it, the guy rolls his eyes and does a kind of wriggling horizontal shrug and sighs like he's carrying the weight of the fucking world.

That wriggle felt fucking awesome. Also Joe has to pee, but still. Awesome. But: "Okay, so -- you aren't, like, worried?"

The guy frowns a little at that, and considers. "Well, no. I mean, I figure it'll come to me. Or, like, somebody will know me. Anyway, I've been, um." And he wriggles again, just a little, because maybe the guy doesn't know who he is but he sure as fuck knows what he's doing to Joe, damn.

"Yeah," Joe says. "Okay, got it."

And Joe braces his hands against the bed and slides up a little, and the guy laughs a little again, and says, "Hey, hang on -- shouldn't we get the door?"

Oh fuck, that's the banging. Oh shit, and where's the clock? And it's motherfucking past 11:30 holy fuck goddamn it and Joe falls off the mattress and grabs for the jeans on the floor and -- no, not those jeans, fuck, wait -- yes, those, and he pulls them on and grabs one of the like sixteen fucking hoodies he stripped off the guy the night before and pulls that on too and crouches fast to kiss the guy, who's laughing his ass off now, the prick, kisses him hard, and runs to the door, yelling, "Sorry! Sorry, coming, hang on, fuck!" the whole way there, and opens it to find Patrick on the other side, looking incredibly unamused.

"Shit."

"Joe." Yeah, like, polar opposite of amused.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, let me get --" He beckons Patrick in, and turns around, and the guy walks in, dressed except for his shoes and pushing his fingers through his hair in some kind of futile attempt to make it less fucked-out and more scenester, or something, Joe doesn't fucking know, but it makes him grin. The guy tosses Joe his t-shirt and says, "Hey," in Patrick's general direction on the way to the kitchen, and fuck, coffee, Joe hopes he can get the guys to stay long enough that he can drink some fucking coffee, and wow, maybe a shower would be a good idea before he gets back in the van, it would probably be the polite thing to do.

So he's thinking about that and not really paying attention when Patrick says, "Mikey?" and the guy, he lifts a hand and says, "Hey, Patrick," and stops in his fucking tracks and turns around and his eyes are enormous and his expression is fucking comical, and he blinks, and says, "Huh. Wow."

And Joe's like: "What?"

And the guy, Mikey, whatever, says, "Well, huh. Yeah, I guess I figured it would happen that way, but, um, that was still weird." And, "Oh, shit, do either of you guys have a phone I can use? Does this place have a phone?" And keeps walking into the kitchen, and then Joe can hear him talking on the phone and rummaging in the cupboard for the coffee at the same time. Okay.

When Joe turns back to Patrick, well, at least Patrick doesn't look so annoyed anymore. Just really confused. "What are you doing here with Mikey Way? And --" Patrick narrows his eyes a little. "Joe, is that a hickey, or were you attacked by vampires holy crap did Mikey do that?" And by the end of the sentence, Patrick actually looks a little freaked out, and maybe Joe really should shower, and maybe look in the mirror, just a little bit.

Then Mikey comes back out of the kitchen, and Joe can hear the coffee machine burbling behind him, awesome, and Mikey sort of gestures toward the bathroom, then stops and says, "Hey, so you said you guys are in Newark tonight? Could I maybe bum a lift?"

And Patrick nods, and Mikey says he'll be ten minutes, tops, and Joe goes into the kitchen to find something to drink the coffee out of, and Patrick opens the front door again and leans out and makes a _five more minutes_ gesture toward the street, the liar, and then comes into the kitchen and takes the mug Joe just washed right out of his hands.

Joe glares at him and rinses the fucking mold out of another mug and pours his own coffee before he asks. "So. Who the fuck is Mikey Way?"

Patrick's expression at that is priceless, seriously. Like, Joe isn't quite sure what the look means, even. Outrage? Maybe. Or possibly amusement. Both? "You've met him, Joe. We played with his fucking band last month. Month before last. Something, I don't know. That skatefest thing? Ring a bell?"

Huh. Kind of. "Kind of? I thought he was shorter. Or, um, taller. With the, um --"

"You're kind of a special guy, Joe. Not guitar, bass." Patrick is definitely trying to hide a smile behind the coffee cup, that asshole.

"What the fuck, Stump, get off my case, I don't think I ever met him, whatever." It _is_ kind of funny, though. "Think I've got time for a shower?"

"Oh, please. Please, I will pay you to shower. I'll make Pete pay you to shower, you reek, man." And now Patrick isn't even trying to hide the smile. Bastard.

***

The shitty thing about waking up so late is that there's no way Joe can show his face out at the van until he's actually ready to go, which means the same t-shirt he's been wearing for three days, the one he got drunk in at least twice and had sex in at least once. It isn't that his other shirts are cleaner, really, but they're...less recent. He only hesitates a minute before he snags a shirt off Billy's floor -- it smells like actual detergent; man, he didn't know he missed that. He comes really close to leaving his own shirt as a trade, but fuck it, they'll hit a laundromat, or it'll air out, or the rest of his clothes will catch up.

Mikey's sitting on the edge of the bed in the room Joe's been sleeping in. The one _they_ slept in. He looks like he's been waiting -- for Joe, not the shower. He's fully layered up again, looking up toward the ceiling and chewing on his lip, looking kind of spaced out and serious at the same time. Joe can hear Patrick in the kitchen; it sounds like he's doing the dishes, what the fuck.

When Joe looks again, Mikey's looking right at him, one eyebrow barely hinting at the possibility of a quirk behind his glasses. Joe can't tell what it means anymore. Mikey's almost the guy he spent a day and a night and barely a morning with, but there's something else there, now. It's like now that he has his memory back, he's more guarded; he's less there. It's. He doesn't know what it is, but it makes his stomach hurt, and it's fucking bullshit anyway, he doesn't care. He kicks at the stuff on the floor until he finds both his shoes. It takes a while; turns out one of them is wedged behind the door, and Joe's tugging it on when he hears a shift and the quiet sound of Mikey's steps on the carpet behind him.

He's not sure he wants to look, but he does anyway.

The look on Mikey's face is -- well, Joe isn't sure what the fuck the look is, the motherfucker was a hell of a lot easier to read before. But there's something there that's familiar. Encouraging, like the guy is still there, looking out at him from behind this new shell. Like the new-to-Joe surface with the distant, flat expression is a haze between Joe and the guy, and he can just barely see the guy under there. Looking back at him, hot and fascinated and intense. Still there.

Joe loses his balance and sits down hard on the carpet, seeing that. And Mikey, well. There's the barest twitch to his expression, the tiniest hint of an eyeroll as he puts out a hand to help Joe up, pull him to his feet. And Joe's still reeling a little, this whole thing is so fucked up, seriously, he doesn't know what to think and the guys are going to be so pissed by the time Joe finally gets to the fucking van in the fucking street outside the fucking apartment, but he can't help it, he sways forward a little, looking for the place where Mikey and the guy blur together, and there it is, and Mikey is pressing him back against the wall and kissing him hard and fast and dirty, all at odds with the distracted pose he's been fronting, and it's urgent and hot and over almost as soon as it begins. Joe blinks a little, it's so sudden, and there's a smile in Mikey's eyes, it's a motherfucking smug-ass grin, and Joe can see it now, for all that it's barely touching the rest of his face. Like Joe just found the secret decoder ring.

Joe grins back, and tugs Mikey van-ward.


End file.
